Caleb rose with her, his knees popping like old floorboards, and let out a breath that almost passed for a laugh.

“Guess that’s fair,” he murmured, brushing a faint smudge of dust from his jeans. “You cry, I start spouting metaphors—house doesn’t stand a chance.”

Lena shot him a look over her shoulder, one brow raised, that half-smile already threatening to turn into something softer. He’d missed that. God, he’d missed that.

When she handed him a dish towel like it was an apron, he took it with mock seriousness. “Alright, supervisor. What’s on the menu tonight? Or am I just supposed to wing it and pray I don’t burn down your emotional recovery dinner?”

She rolled her eyes, leaning against the counter, but there was color in her cheeks again. That was worth every bad joke he had in him.

“Relax,” she said. “We’re keeping it simple. Pasta. Maybe salad if you behave.”

“Pasta,” he repeated, pretending to weigh it like a major decision. “Alright. But you’re on sauce duty. Last time I tried, we had to evacuate the house and apologize to the neighbors.”

“That’s because you used barbecue seasoning instead of basil,” she countered.

He gave her a helpless grin. “Still think it had potential.”

She snorted, shaking her head, and the sound—the easy, unguarded laugh—settled deep in his chest. It was the first time all day he’d felt the house exhale with them.

Caleb turned to the stove, setting a pot of water to boil, the motion familiar, grounding. “You know,” he said after a moment, glancing over at her, “I don’t mind the supervising. Long as you keep talking.”

She leaned back against the counter, watching him move through the small rituals of cooking, her arms crossed loosely, her face softened by the warm kitchen light.

“You’re really bad at being subtle, you know that?” she teased.

He met her gaze, eyes steady. “Never claimed otherwise.”

The timer clicked on the oven, the pot began to hum, and for a moment, everything felt still again—but this time in a way that felt right. Not hollow. Not heavy. Just quiet and full.

Caleb wiped his hands on the towel and looked at her—really looked at her. The soft curve of her smile. The light catching in her hair. The strength that somehow still lived behind her tired eyes.

“You make it easy to stay,” he said simply.

She froze, then shook her head, that faint, disbelieving laugh spilling out again. “There you go,” she said, smiling through it. “Being poetic when I told you not to.”

He just shrugged, that quiet grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Can’t help it. Must be all the sawdust in my soul.”

She groaned, tossing a dishtowel at him, but she was laughing now—real, bright, alive—and he caught it easily, tucking it over his shoulder like a victory flag.

Dinner went on like that. Easy. Messy. Human.

And somewhere between the smell of garlic and the sound of her laughter echoing through their little kitchen, Caleb realized that maybe this was what building different really looked like.

It wasn’t grand gestures or perfect plans. It was just this—a quiet house, a warm light, two people choosing to stay anyway.

Still theirs.
Always.

The air smelled like cider and woodsmoke.

Somewhere down the street, a rake scraped against pavement, and the sound carried—rhythmic, domestic, familiar. The kind of small-town noise that always seemed to echo a little louder in October.

Lena stood on the front walk, one hand shading her eyes from the late-afternoon sun, the other clutching a bundle of faux cobwebs that kept snagging on her sweater. The porch looked halfway done—half cozy autumn postcard, half haunted house in progress. Caleb’s ladder leaned against the roofline, its metal legs anchored in the damp earth.

Above her, he grunted, the sound low and wordless, followed by the rattle of light clips and the faint squeak of the ladder shifting.

“Careful,” she murmured instinctively, even though she knew he had it handled. He always did.

The air was crisp enough to sting her cheeks. Her breath came out in faint wisps, mingling with the scent of cut pine and the sweet rot of fallen leaves. The maple tree—their tree—was shedding fast this year. Gold and copper littered the grass, curling into the corners of the steps.

She knelt beside the planter box and brushed a handful of leaves away, her rings catching the sunlight as she adjusted a small cluster of mums. Burnt orange and deep burgundy, balanced just right. She’d spent all morning arranging pumpkins on the porch—real ones, because she refused to let plastic take over completely. Some smooth and round, others lopsided and knobby. A few were carved with soft, flickering smiles from last night’s practice run with her favorite carving knife.

If she was being honest, she didn’t know why she cared so much this year.

They’d always done decorations—Caleb for the craftsmanship, her for the aesthetic—but this? The full haunted-house treatment? The fake bats and string lights and the hand-painted sign that read Tricks Welcome leaning against the porch rail? That was new.

Maybe she just wanted to see the porch glow when the sun went down. Maybe she wanted to hear laughter spill across the yard, even if it wasn’t theirs.

She wasn’t about to unpack that. Not today.

Caleb groaned again from above—this time the kind of sound that meant the hammer wasn’t cooperating. She looked up just in time to see him reach awkwardly toward a stubborn nail.

“Don’t fall,” she called up lightly, half teasing, half serious. Her voice came out softer than she meant, carried away on the breeze that rustled the corn stalks she’d tied to the porch posts earlier.

He didn’t answer, just grunted again, and she smiled to herself.

She turned back to her work, adding a few miniature gourds to the step arrangement. A garland of dried orange slices and cinnamon sticks looped over the railing, releasing a faint, sweet smell when the wind picked up. She’d made it herself one rainy afternoon, the kind of project that kept her hands busy and her mind quiet.

The front of the house was starting to come together now—their old craftsman wrapped in soft amber lights, porch full of pumpkins and rustic charm, the faint shimmer of spiderwebs catching in the golden hour glow. It looked… happy. Lived in. Like something out of a memory she hadn’t known she wanted until recently.

Caleb shifted on the ladder again, and she looked up, shading her eyes. His flannel hung open at the collar, sleeves rolled, forearms dusty from work. He looked at ease up there, hands sure, boots steady.

He grunted once more, that low, satisfied kind of sound that usually meant the job was done.

Lena couldn’t help it—she smiled.

“Looks good from here,” she called softly, even though he hadn’t asked.

The breeze lifted her hair, carrying the scent of wood and smoke and something faintly sweet—maybe the apple candles burning inside.

She turned back to the porch steps, crouching to adjust the last pumpkin. The fading light hit just right, glinting off the brass lantern she’d set beside it. The house glowed warm and golden behind her, ready to welcome whoever came knocking.

And maybe, just maybe, that was the point.

She wasn’t decorating for the trick-or-treaters—or at least, not only for them. She was decorating for the quiet spaces, for the echoes that never quite went away, for the pieces of herself that still needed reminding that joy could live here, too.

A crunch of gravel sounded behind her—Caleb stepping off the ladder. She didn’t look up right away, just kept fussing with the mums until his shadow fell across the porch beside her.

The lights flickered on above them, one by one.

Warm. Steady. Home.

Caleb stayed by the steps for a moment, the hammer still hooked to his back pocket, just watching her work. The string lights he’d hung hummed faintly overhead, washing the porch in that soft amber glow she always managed to capture — the kind that made everything look intentional.

He rubbed a bit of dirt off his palm, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “You know you could’ve stopped three pumpkins ago,” he said, his tone easy. “But then again, moderation’s never really been your thing.”

She didn’t answer, just kept adjusting the mums, sunlight slipping through the curls at her temple. He liked that about her — how she never rushed beauty, how she filled silence with presence instead of noise.

He crouched down beside her, knees creaking, and leaned an elbow on his thigh, taking in the view. The garland, the lanterns, the carved smiles flickering in soft orange light — all her fingerprints. All warmth. “Looks good,” he said quietly. “Better than last year.”

When she glanced up, he caught her gaze and held it for a beat. “Place feels like a postcard,” he murmured. “You did that.”

The breeze shifted, lifting the faint smell of cinnamon from somewhere inside. He could see the flicker of the candle through the front window, steady and calm — like the house itself was breathing again.

He reached out, brushed a loose leaf from the hem of her sweater, fingers lingering there just long enough to make her look at him again. “You been out here all afternoon?”

Her shrug was answer enough. Caleb nodded, settling back on his heels. “Knew it,” he muttered, eyes scanning the porch. “You don’t do anything halfway.”

He straightened then, offered her a hand without saying much else. When she took it, he pulled her to her feet and glanced at the glow spilling across the porch. “It’s good,” he said, voice low. “Feels like home out here.”

The ladder stood quiet against the siding, the air smelled like cider and smoke, and for the first time in a long while, the quiet didn’t sting. It just felt right.

Lena smiled before he even finished the sentence. That low, quiet pride in his voice—it hit her right in the chest every time.

“I did that?” she echoed, arching a brow as she turned toward him. The porch lights caught in her eyes, making them look almost gold. “Oh no, mister—don’t think you get to play the humble card now. You were the one halfway up that ladder cursing at a strand of lights for an hour.”

He grunted in response, the sound halfway between a laugh and a protest, and she grinned, stepping closer to inspect his handiwork. The amber bulbs glowed warm against the old siding, reflecting off the carved pumpkins below.

“This—” she gestured between the lights, the porch, the little fall oasis they’d built together “—this is us. You and me. Equal parts cozy and chaos.”

Caleb let out another of those quiet, skeptical sounds, but she caught the corner of his mouth twitching, and that was good enough.

Lena dusted off her hands and stood back to admire their work, the crisp air tugging gently at her hair. “Besides,” she said, softer now, “if it feels like home, it’s because we made it that way. Together.”

The words came easily, not because she was trying to make them poetic but because they were true. Every light, every pumpkin, every nail in the siding—they’d done it hand in hand. Built it, piece by imperfect piece, until it reflected something bigger than either of them alone.

She turned back to him, playful again. “Also, for the record, moderation is highly overrated. Look at this porch. It’s practically award-winning.”

Another grunt, another almost-smile.

“Oh, come on,” she teased, stepping closer, reaching out to pluck a stray leaf from his flannel. “You’re just jealous I got to handle the pretty parts while you wrestled with the extension cord.”

He muttered something low and unintelligible—definitely not agreement—and she laughed, bright and easy.

The sound carried out across the yard, through the cool air and falling leaves, mingling with the hum of their porch lights and the distant chatter of kids somewhere down the block.

She tucked her hands into her sweater sleeves and looked up at the glow spilling across the house, her heart full in that quiet, steady way she’d grown to love.

“Yeah,” she said softly, mostly to herself. “We did good.”

Then, after a beat, her gaze drifted toward the fire pit at the edge of the yard—the one Caleb had built from leftover stone last summer. It sat empty now, ringed with fallen leaves and waiting.

“Only thing we’re missing,” she said with a faint, teasing smile, “is a fire going out there and a couple mugs of hot cocoa. You know, for the full postcard effect.”

The words hung between them, light and warm as the string lights above, the kind of small domestic dream that meant more than either of them would ever say out loud.

And they had.

It wasn’t perfect—nothing ever was—but it was theirs. Every light, every laugh, every shared silence. Still building. Still choosing. Always.

Caleb’s laugh came low — quiet enough to get lost under the sound of the wind pushing through the maple, but still there. That rough, unpolished sound she always managed to pull out of him. He rubbed the back of his neck, pretending to study the siding like it mattered, though what he was really doing was buying himself a second.

The porch lights flickered in the reflection of her eyes — that amber glow catching on the flecks of gold and brown, turning them warm enough to undo him. The pumpkins, the garland, the smell of cinnamon and wood smoke in the air — all of it felt like the kind of scene people stopped for, the kind they tried to bottle in postcards and call peace.

He shifted a little closer, boots scuffing against the wood. “You make it sound like I didn’t almost throw the hammer at the wall,” he said, his tone soft and dry all at once. He gestured vaguely toward the roofline, still dotted with amber bulbs. “Pretty sure the lights won the first three rounds.”

When she smiled at that, he felt the tension drain right out of his shoulders. She had that effect — turning every ordinary moment into something easy, something worth holding.

The evening air had gone cool enough that their breath fogged faintly between them. He caught a loose strand of her hair that had snagged on her sweater and brushed it away, his fingers lingering for half a second longer than necessary. “You’re right about one thing,” he said, nodding toward the glowing mess of pumpkins and webs. “It’s definitely cozy and chaos.”

He looked at her then, really looked — at the curve of her grin, the faint smudge of dirt on her cheek, the way she still smelled faintly like the apples she’d sliced earlier. “Feels like us,” he admitted. “In all the best ways.”

Her teasing about moderation earned another low hum of amusement, but he didn’t argue. He just let his eyes trace the porch again — the carved pumpkins with their crooked smiles, the scatter of leaves against the steps, the way her hand had found its way to the railing beside his. “If there was an award for this,” he said, voice dipping softer, “you’d have to make the trophy yourself. Nobody else could do it justice.”

When she reached for his flannel, brushing away that stubborn leaf, his mouth twitched again, somewhere between a smirk and surrender. He caught her wrist for a second, thumb running over her pulse — small, steady, sure. “Jealous?” he murmured. “Nah. You just like to make me work for it.”

Her laugh — bright, unrestrained — filled the yard. It echoed off the siding, mixed with the sound of crickets, the faint chatter of kids farther down the block, and the low hum of the porch lights overhead.

He didn’t say anything for a while after that. Just listened. The way her laughter folded into the air made the whole world feel right-sized again.

When she finally went quiet, his gaze followed hers toward the fire pit at the edge of the yard — that ring of stone he’d laid by hand last summer, one stubborn piece at a time. The leaves had already started collecting there, a mess of gold and copper waiting for a spark.

“Cocoa and a fire,” he said, slow and thoughtful, the words almost a smile. “Sounds about right.” He reached for her hand again, their fingers lacing easily. “I’ll grab the matches. You get the mugs.”

The light from the house spilled out across the yard, soft and golden, catching in the curve of her smile when she looked back at him. The porch glowed behind them — every light, every nail, every pumpkin a testament to what they’d built.

It wasn’t loud or flashy. It wasn’t perfect. But standing there with her hand in his, watching the world turn gold around them, Caleb thought — not for the first time — that it was everything.

Still building. Still choosing. Always.

Lena grinned, brushing her thumb along his knuckles as she tilted her head toward the roofline. “Mmh, you mean the lights that almost made you swear off electricity altogether? Yeah, I saw that battle.”

She stepped closer, voice soft but laced with amusement. “I’ll give you this though—you came out the victor. Barely. I was about two minutes from calling the power company for moral support.”

His mouth twitched, but she didn’t let him answer. She leaned back just enough to take in the finished porch again, that mix of amber light and carved pumpkins and tangled cobwebs catching on the breeze. “Still,” she added, “it looks incredible. You and your ladder put on quite the show. Not that I’m complaining—I do enjoy watching a man work.”

Her tone dipped slyly, warm and teasing, and when his brow lifted in quiet challenge, she laughed, unabashed. “What? I’m allowed to appreciate craftsmanship. Especially when it comes with rolled sleeves and a view.”

The air between them hummed, easy and familiar, wrapped in the scent of cinnamon and smoke. She reached up, smoothing the front of his flannel as if it had somehow offended her. “You can pretend you don’t like me bossing you around out here, but we both know I make it worth your while.”

His smile deepened at that—small, quiet, enough to make her chest feel lighter than it had in weeks.

Lena rose on her toes and kissed him—soft, sure, and sweet with the faint taste of October air. It wasn’t a grand gesture, just an anchor. A promise.

When she pulled back, her breath brushed his jaw. “Alright, Mr. Victor,” she murmured. “You start the fire. I’ll make the cocoa. And if you burn your eyebrows off again, I’m not saving you this time.”

That earned her another laugh, and she grinned, turning toward the front door. The porch lights flickered against her back as she went, her boots crunching through the scattered leaves.

Inside, the glow from the kitchen spilled out through the window, golden and alive. She could hear him outside, moving toward the fire pit, the sound of dry wood stacking breaking the stillness.

Lena smiled to herself as she reached for the cocoa tin.

The lights, the laughter, the fire waiting to spark—it was all theirs. Still building, still choosing, still here.

Caleb’s laugh came low in his throat, quiet but warm, carried off with the breeze that moved through the porch. He shook his head, eyes narrowing just a little as that teasing smile of hers lingered in his mind. The memory of her standing there—hands on her hips, light in her eyes—stuck with him as he stepped down into the yard.

The grass was soft under his boots, still damp from the afternoon. He crouched by the fire pit, stacking the wood she’d left out—oak, dry and split clean. The scent of cut bark mixed with the faint sweetness of the mums by the steps, the kind of small detail he noticed more than he’d ever admit.

He worked in silence, sleeves rolled past his forearms, the rhythm of it familiar and easy. A match flared to life with one flick of his thumb, and he bent low to coax the flame into the kindling. The fire caught slow, stubborn at first, then sudden—a burst of orange that painted his face in light.

He leaned back on his heels, watching the glow build, crackling against the cool air. The warmth rolled across his skin, soft and steady. Somewhere behind him, he could hear her moving in the kitchen, the faint clink of mugs and the gentle hum of her voice drifting through the open window.

He smiled to himself, small and private. The sound of her moving inside that house—their house—had a way of filling everything else.

The fire snapped, scattering sparks into the night. He reached forward, adjusting a log with the edge of his boot, then stood and brushed his palms against his jeans. His breath came out slow, curling white in the October air.

From the porch, the golden light spilled out in soft streaks across the yard. The pumpkins glowed, the string lights flickered, and for a moment, everything looked exactly like it should.

He glanced toward the kitchen window, catching the shadow of her moving past the glass, and the faint tug of a smile pulled at his mouth again. He didn’t call to her. Didn’t need to.

Instead, he turned back to the fire, slid his hands into his pockets, and let the quiet settle.

The world felt steady here—warm light, falling leaves, her laughter somewhere inside.

Still theirs. Still enough.

Steam curled lazily from the pot on the stove, carrying the faint scent of cocoa and cinnamon through the kitchen.

Lena leaned her hip against the counter, one arm folded across her chest while the other idly stirred the milk. The wooden spoon traced slow circles, quiet against the pot, but her attention wasn’t really on it—it was fixed on the window.

Outside, her mountain man was in his element.

Caleb knelt beside the fire pit, broad shoulders outlined in the soft orange flicker of the flames he’d coaxed to life. His flannel was half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, hair a little messy from the wind. Every movement was deliberate—the way he shifted a log with his boot, leaned down to blow life into the coals, stood to watch the flames rise and take.

He looked like something out of a photograph she’d frame and pretend not to stare at every day.

Which, honestly, wasn’t far from the truth. The fridge behind her was proof—lined with a handful of small, silly pictures of him she’d put in tiny frames with magnetic backs. Caleb sanding a table, grin too big for his face. Caleb asleep on the couch, Roxie the neighbor’s cat sprawled over his chest. Caleb shirtless in the yard one summer afternoon, caught mid-eye roll when he’d realized she was taking the photo. He claimed he hated them, but he’d never once taken them down.

Lena smiled, shaking her head at herself as she turned back to the stove. “Sappy much, Hartley?” she muttered under her breath, though the grin tugging at her mouth refused to fade.

The milk was ready now, tiny bubbles forming at the edge of the pot. She poured in the cocoa powder—real stuff, none of that instant mix nonsense—along with a little sugar, a dash of cinnamon, and a pinch of sea salt because she liked the way it brought out the chocolate. Then she whisked, slow and steady, until the kitchen smelled like warmth itself.

Caleb would’ve been perfectly happy with something simple—milk, cocoa, done—but she couldn’t help herself. A little whipped cream on top, a few chocolate shavings she’d found in the pantry… city girl habits die hard.

She poured the cocoa into their matching mugs—the ones they’d picked up at a flea market last fall, hand-thrown pottery in warm brown tones. His said "Steady as Stone" in faded lettering. Hers said "Heart First." She’d rolled her eyes when she bought them, but they’d used them ever since.

When the mugs were ready, she reached for the blanket draped across the back of the couch—soft, worn, still faintly smelling of cedar from their last cabin trip. She threw it over her shoulder, balancing the mugs carefully in her hands as she nudged the screen door open with her hip.

The chill hit her instantly—cool and sharp, the kind that carried the scent of burning wood and distant leaves.

Out by the fire, Caleb had settled on the wooden bench he’d built earlier that summer—a solid, simple thing made from reclaimed oak, worn smooth from the hours they’d already spent sitting there together. The firelight washed over him, painting his skin in shades of amber and gold as sparks drifted up into the dark.

The porch lights glowed behind him, a soft halo against the early October night.

Lena paused on the steps for a moment, just watching him. Watching them—the house, the fire, the life they’d made that somehow managed to hold both her chaos and his calm.

And then, finally, she stepped down onto the grass and walked toward him, her boots whispering against the fallen leaves.

“Alright, lumberjack,” she called softly, amusement tugging at her voice. “Hot cocoa delivery. Fancy edition. Don’t get used to it.”

He looked up as she came closer, and she smiled, handing him the mug before unfolding the blanket and draping it over both of them as she sank beside him on the bench.

The fire crackled. The cocoa steamed. And for a moment, as she leaned into his shoulder and felt the heat seep through her bones, Lena thought—quietly, privately—that this was it.

It might not have been the picture-perfect fairytale she once thought she wanted—no white fences, no picture-perfect script.

But it had laughter, cocoa, the best damn fire pit in Evergreen, and him.

And honestly? That was more than enough.

She leaned a little closer, letting the firelight paint gold across his jaw, her smile soft and certain.

Because this—this quiet, steady kind of love—they’d built it together.
And she wouldn’t change a single thing.

Caleb glanced up at the sound of her voice, the corner of his mouth lifting before she’d even reached him. The glow from the fire caught in her hair, making it look almost copper in the light. He took the mug from her with a quiet hum of approval, fingers brushing hers, warmth bleeding between them.

“Fancy edition, huh?” he said, voice low and rough from the chill. He looked down at the swirl of whipped cream and chocolate shavings, shaking his head like he was trying not to smile. “You know me too well. If it were up to me, this’d just be cocoa and tap water.”

The first sip nearly burned his tongue, but it didn’t stop the small, content sound that rumbled in his chest. “That’s dangerous,” he murmured, eyes on the fire. “Sweet, rich… way above my pay grade.”

When she settled beside him and pulled the blanket across their shoulders, he shifted automatically, letting his arm fall around her without a word. The weight of her against his side felt like exhale after a long day—easy, known, right.

He didn’t talk for a while, just watched the fire flicker, its glow dancing across the grass and the house beyond. The porch lights reflected off her mug as she lifted it, the faintest curl of steam catching in the air between them.

“Y’know,” he said eventually, voice quiet enough that it barely carried past the fire, “for someone who calls me lumberjack, you sure do like watching me play with sticks.” He felt her shoulder shake with a laugh, and the sound made his own smile deepen. “Pretty sure you just like the view.”

Her elbow nudged his ribs, but he didn’t move, just let his thumb trace slow, absent circles along her arm where the blanket had slipped.

The wind shifted, carrying the smell of cocoa, pine, and smoke, and he breathed it in like something he wanted to remember. “You spoil me,” he said softly. “All this for a guy who almost set his flannel on fire last time.”

He took another sip, the warmth coating his throat. “If this is what not getting used to it looks like, I think I could risk a few singed eyebrows.”

For a long time, neither of them spoke. The fire popped, the night settled, and the quiet between them stretched comfortable and full. He glanced down at her head resting against his shoulder, her breath syncing with his.

Caleb’s hand found hers beneath the blanket, fingers threading through slow, steady. “You make this place feel like something real,” he said after a beat, almost under his breath. “Like I didn’t even know what home was until now.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, let the fire do the talking after that, and held her a little closer as the night folded in around them—warm, familiar, and steady as the heartbeat of the life they’d made.

Lena snorted softly against his shoulder, her laughter muffled by the blanket. “Sweet, rich, and above your pay grade, huh?” she echoed, glancing up at him with a grin that was all sass and warmth. “Please. Being with me jumped you up at least one tax bracket, minimum.”

He huffed a laugh, and she nudged him again with her elbow, the blanket shifting slightly. “I’m serious,” she went on, her tone teasing but her eyes bright. “You were out here living the rugged bachelor dream—instant coffee, mismatched plates, and one sad towel that had seen better decades. Now look at you.”

She gestured at the mug in his hand, the blanket, the soft glow of the firelight. “Homemade cocoa, seasonal décor, proper linens. You’re practically domesticated.”

Caleb made a quiet sound of protest, but it only made her grin widen. She loved getting that reaction out of him—that low rumble of amusement that lived somewhere between a sigh and a laugh.

“And don’t give me that look,” she added, sipping from her own mug, “because you know I’m right. Admit it—you like a little luxury with your chaos.”

He didn’t answer, but the faint smirk tugging at his mouth said plenty.

She settled back against him, savoring the warmth, the way the firelight brushed along the strong line of his jaw. God, she’d never get tired of looking at him like this—shirt sleeves rolled up, stubble catching the light, eyes focused on the flames like he was still deciding how to build something better out of them.

“Though,” she murmured after a moment, “you’re not wrong. I do like the view. A lot.”

Her tone went a touch softer, but no less playful. “What can I say? You’re hot, Caleb. I ended up with a mountain man who makes flannel look like a personal brand, and I’m not ashamed to enjoy the view.”

That earned her the quiet laugh she’d been waiting for. He turned his head slightly, and she caught the glint of amusement in his eyes before he kissed her temple.

She let herself melt into the moment, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against her side. “And for the record,” she said, voice quieter now but still edged with that teasing affection, “you spoil me just as much. Don’t think I don’t know it.”

She nodded toward the porch, where the warm light spilled over the planters he’d built her, the greenhouse barely visible beyond, and the fire pit itself—their newest project turned nightly ritual. “You pretend it’s nothing, but I see you. The way you just… make things happen. Things I only mentioned once in passing.”

He started to say something, but she pressed a hand lightly against his chest, stopping him. “Don’t. You’ll ruin my point.”

Her smile softened. “You do all that, and then have the nerve to act like I’m the one who spoils you.”

He said nothing—just smiled in that quiet, knowing way that made her heart ache in the best way.

She leaned in and brushed her lips against his jaw, slow and light. “You might be my mountain man, Maren, but between the fire, the cocoa, and that stupid grin, you’re also the best damn thing I ever stumbled into.”

The fire crackled in reply, sparks floating up into the cool night air.

Lena curled closer under the blanket, her voice a lazy whisper. “And for the record,” she murmured, a smile in her tone, “I like the view from right here even better.”

The world outside their small circle of light faded to quiet, leaving only the warmth of the fire, the taste of chocolate, and the steady comfort of love built on laughter and a hundred small, perfect nothings.